Mirror, Mirror
Page 37
Sydney stared in openmouthed surprise. “Is one of those mine?”
Cullen nodded. “It is, yes. I had it framed so it could hang beside its mate.”
Sydney stared at a painting from her childhood hanging beside her own. She stepped closer, before turning to Cullen in stunned disbelief. “Is this my father’s? How can this be?”
“My family bought it.”
“Your family! When?”
“Years ago. As soon as your father’s paintings were offered for sale, our solicitor was told to bid on the entire collection.”
“You bought them from my stepmother?”
He nodded. “From her representative, actually. We never dealt with her directly.”
Sydney’s eyes filled with tears as she stared hungrily at her father’s painting of Slipper Rock. “Why did you want this?”
“It belongs here. Your father’s talent brought a sense of pride to our town. His early paintings were all about the familiar landmarks of Innismere. And even when he left his home, and painted the lovely scenes around the countryside of his new land, they seemed to speak of his home here.”
Sydney glanced around. “Where are the rest of his paintings?”
Cullen caught her hand. “Come. I’ll show you.”
The majestic hallway was lined with paintings, and every one of them had been painted by her father’s hand. Just seeing them, she was transported back to her childhood, and all the joyful hours she’d spent in her father’s company.
She touched a hand to each painting, feeling again the dips and curves of her father’s scrawled signature.
Beneath a huge skylight rested her father’s finest creation. This one was a scene of the river Glass from the far shore. On the hill, instead of the church, her father had painted this castle. In the clouds above were robed figures of a king and queen.
Sydney’s hand flew to her mouth. “Look, Cullen. It’s the vision I described to you.”
He was smiling. “So it is.”
She shook her head. “I know this canvas bears my father’s signature, but I never saw him paint this castle, or those royal figures.”
Cullen’s smile grew. “That’s because this was commissioned by my grandfather when your father was just a lad. Even at a young age, he shared the magic of this place, for he’d seen it with his own eyes.”
He caught her hand and led her back to his suite of rooms, where he urged her to sit beside him on a white sofa. “I owe you an explanation. You’ve been so patient with me, Sydney. But now, it’s time I told you everything.”
She clasped her hands together, wondering what he was about to reveal. Though she’d gone this far with him on faith, there was still that tiny seed of doubt that Margot had planted.
“There’s much about this town, and its people, that is never revealed to outsiders.”
“Am I an outsider?”
“You never were, Sydney, thanks to your father. But until we were certain, we did our best to keep our secrets to ourselves.”
“And now?”
“I owe you the truth. My ancestors are direct descendants of ancient Irish lords. At one time they were considered royalty. Through the generations they’ve protected the land either as warriors, or, in more peaceful times, as elected officials. I’ve been asked to run for Parliament, or at least to be mayor of Innismere, but I choose instead to simply run my software company, which employs hundreds of people both here and in Dublin, and a few thousand more employees abroad.”
Sydney’s jaw dropped. “You’re a successful businessman?”
“You seem surprised.”
She nodded. “You never seemed to work. And you never had any money. Mrs. Kelly wouldn’t take your money. Neither would O’Malley. So I thought . . .” Seeing the laughter in his eyes, her words trailed off.
“You thought I was unemployed?”
She shrugged. “Worse.”
“Worse?” As the realization dawned, he burst into laughter. “You thought I was using you?”
She looked away. “Not at first, but when I told Margot that I was in love with you, she persuaded me that you were a con artist who was playing me for a fool.”
“Sydney, the reason Mary Francis Kelly and O’Malley wouldn’t take money from me is because, when they were about to be foreclosed, I loaned them enough to pay off their mortgages to the bank.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved. You’ll never know . . .”
They both looked up as a plump woman in a black dress, her cheeks bright pink, eyes alight with curiosity, charged into the room and nearly skidded to a halt.
“Ye’re home then.” She seemed delighted. “I was in the kitchen, and telling Cook that ye wanted yer wedding supper up in yer rooms. Little did I know ye were already here until Egan found us gossiping and told me ye needed me.”
“Mrs. Maguire, I’d like you to meet my bride, Sydney.”
“Sydney. Of course.” The older woman seemed absolutely delighted as she stepped closer and offered her a handshake. “It’s very welcome indeed ye are to Eventide, Mrs. Rella.”
“Rella?” Sydney shot a sideways glance at Cullen. “When the judge officiated at our wedding, he called you something else.”
Cullen chuckled. “In Gaelic, it’s an ancient and noble name, and folks in Innismere prefer the Gaelic to the English translation.”
“I’ll be fetching that wedding supper now,” the old woman said as she fairly danced from the room.
Sydney glanced at her beloved father’s painting, and then at her own. The two were identical.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, Cullen said, “It all fit, you see.”
“Fit?”
“The things you’d seen. Only a chosen few have ever had the vision of our ancestors. The castle. The royal figures. And, of course, there’s your painting of Slipper Rock. That fit perfectly.”
“I don’t understand.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Your painting exactly matched one your father painted when he was a lad, when it had been commissioned by my grandfather. A seer, who was an advisor to my ancestors, said that Slipper Rock had magical powers. He assured my family that one day, a slipper would fit an amazing woman who would become the great love of my life. I took his prediction literally, and thought I ought to try fitting a slipper on your foot. But then you chose to paint Slipper Rock, and I knew at once what he really meant. Your painting has been measured against the one painted by your father. An expert has examined and measured, centimeter by centimeter, to be certain that it fit. For, you see, once the slipper fit, I knew I’d found my one and only true love.”
Sydney’s eyes widened with sudden knowledge. “Are you suggesting that this is like some sort of fairy tale? The handsome, charming son of royalty? His godmother, who runs the inn? The slipper that fits? It’s all . . . magic?”
“I’ll leave that for you to decide, my beautiful bride. I know only that I’ve waited a lifetime for you. Your love has rescued me from a life that was empty and meaningless. Even though I have a good life here, with many friends, I yearned for that one special person who would mean more to me than life itself.”
That lovely rogue smile lit all his features as he leaned close to brush her mouth with his, sending a tingle of warmth along her spine. “And because you’re American, I’ll say this in your tongue. Welcome home, my lovely Sydney Rella.”
“Of course. Sydney Rella. Sydney Rella.” She was up and dancing around like a girl, clapping her hands as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.
And then she was in Cullen’s arms, laughing and crying as the truth dawned.
“You love me. Truly love me. And I love you. And we really are going to live happily ever after, aren’t we?”
Cullen didn’t bother to answer. He was too busy kissing her, and showing her, in the way of lovers from the beginning of time, the true magic of love.
Table of Contents
T AKEN IN D EATH
I F W ISHES W ERE H O
RSES
B EAUTY , S LEEPING
T HE C HRISTMAS C OMET
S TROKE OF M IDNIGHT